


Nadir

by hanzopanzo (floralstiel)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Amputation, Explorations of deadeye, Hate Sex, Jesse as Joel, M/M, Minor Character Death, Origin Story, a lot of hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 18:31:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13595886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floralstiel/pseuds/hanzopanzo
Summary: McCree and Reyes had hated each other for much longer than they have loved.





	Nadir

**Author's Note:**

> This was the way Reyes preferred. He didn’t want recruits from a military pedigree fresh from boot camp, he didn’t want geniuses plucked from universities, he didn’t even want the bravest or the meanest. He wanted the ones that were broken, the ones so maimed beyond repair that Reyes could take them and force them into something new.

His mother died young. So did his father—somewhere, not here. She, in the ground, and he, above it, would not miss him.

Nothing grew out in the badlands of New Mexico save grave stones, and they'd just planted another one. He'd be in the ground soon, too. He hadn't eaten in some time, no water in his body to speak of other than what was already naturally there, and so he knew he would die.

“What's here?”

He stirred in bed, lazily looking to the doorway. He saw silhouettes moving in the room beyond, digging through his mother’s things—they wouldn't find anything of value, he'd sold it all for food and water long ago—and it was hard to focus, to keep his eyes open long enough to track their movements. It was a conscious effort to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head.

“Hey, uh, we got a kid in here.”

“A what?”

“A kid!”

Hands touched him, slapping him around until he opened his eyes again.

“He ain't long for this world.”

“How long you think he's been like this?”

“Days? I don't know man I ain't a doctor.”

“You got a chocolate bar or something? You always got something on you…”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Fingers pried his mouth open and he heard crinkling, smelled something sweet before it was pressed between his teeth. He couldn't even drool. Fingers helped him chew, and he could taste it. Chocolate. He whined.

“There we go, kiddo. It's gonna be alright.”

Fingers brushed through his lanky hair, catching on oily snags but he was too weak to even wince. They didn't say anything when he started crying, just wiped his tears and brushed his hair as he wept.

 

 

They brought him home with them. Once he was conscious enough to remember it his caretaker gave his name, McCree. Just McCree. The man asked his and he said Joel, voice cracking and still so harsh and dry.

“Joel McCree,” the man said, chuckling. “Sounds mighty fine.”

They were a biker gang out of the Deadlock Gorge, the Rebels, and they ran pretty much anything they could get their hands on; drugs, whores, vehicles, guns, you name it. McCree made plenty to take care of himself, Joel and then some, and so he did.

Growing up with criminals wasn't much different than growing in poverty, different rules of different sorts but Joel was adaptive, pretty much had to be. They say it takes a village to raise a child, and in this case it took a gang of desert thugs. He grew up with them, learned to love them, warts and all, and McCree couldn't be prouder.

“When I picked you up in that shit hole out side’a Santa Fe we thought you was a goner,” the man said one night as they were sprawled on the foldout in the clubhouse, their home. “Saw the fresh grave out back and figured the place to be abandoned. Figure it was an act of God what put you in my hands.”

Joel hummed and turned on his side under their threadbare blanket, watching his surrogate father’s eyes dance in the wane moonlight as it crept through the dusty window glass. He loved this man. Unconditionally.

“Glad you found me,” Joel spoke in the tender quiet, basking in the man's answering smile.

“Me too, kiddo. Me too.”

 

 

McCree didn't hesitate in teaching Joel how to shoot.

“You gotta learn to take care of yourself,” the man said when he put the revolver in Joel's small hands. “I ain't always gonna be here to look after you.”

“Yessir.”

They went shooting out back. Joel didn't get the hang of it until a few lessons later, but it took awhile for the skill to evolve until he was a crack shot, acing cards at a hundred yards.

“Ain't natural,” one of the other men muttered, an older fella by the name of Joe Peet. Joel eyed him quietly while McCree laughed it off, swatting flies away from his face with his hat and flashing his pearly-white grin and crinkled, sloe eyes. McCree could talk his way out of anything, easing his way out of suspicion easier than an oil slick, and Joel envied him.

 

 

There was a school close by, in the town a dozen or so miles up the Gorge from their place. Weren't many kids about, but there were a few around Joel's age that hung around the general after hours. Joel’d ride up at around 3 on his bike—nothing fancy, something McCree’d helped him build on his fifteenth birthday—and park on the outskirts. He wore the gang’s colors for protection only, and it kept most of the people away, but there was a guy. His name was Billy, he was seventeen and he probably liked to think he was real slick.

“Heya Joel,” he called, easy as can be as he sidled up by his hip outside the general.

“Howdy,” Joel replied, same as always. That always got a laugh out of Billy, like he didn't sound the same because he'd grown up in the same backwater town in the same backwater gorge in the middle of nowhere. He tugged on Joel's bandana for the fun of it and kicked off the porch.

“C’mon, wanna show you somethin’.”

Joel cocked a brow but sauntered after him, patting the bulge of his revolver in the back of his jeans just in case.

They made their way to a pond couple miles out and did what two boys would do on a hot summer day in the desert. Billy whooped and yelled as he ran his way splashing into the water, nude as the day he was born, Joel right behind him, sans the hollering. Their energy quickly waned and they dragged themselves out of the water to the shore, under the handy shade of a low lying tree close by.

Joel was panting and grinning, looking at the water so he didn't see it coming. Billy leaned over and took Joel's head in his hands and kissed him. Joel stared up at him, wide-eyed and unmoving as the older boy’s tongue clumsily prodded at his lips. He shuddered when one of Billy’s hands fell to his still-wet thigh and he grunted, forcing Billy away as he scrambled to his feet.

“The fuck’s wrong with you?” Joel hissed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“C’mon, Joel, don't be like that.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” he snarled, fetching his clothes and boots and taking off at a jog. Billy let him go.

 

 

He stayed away from the town for a few days before daring to venture back. He scowled when he saw Billy waiting by the general and started backtracking but the other teen waved him over, unusually subdued.

“I'm sorry man, I didn't mean to overstep,” he apologized, hang dog and quiet, “it's just you been giving me all these signals and I thought, you know…”

“Signals,” Joel repeated with a grimace.

“Let me make it up to you?” Billy grinned, sheepish but evasive. Joel sighed through his nose but nodded, letting the other teen pull him in the direction of the pond. This time they went farther, ate up most of their daylight walking until they found another pool, this one deeper and cooler than before. Joel couldn't deny it felt amazing in the heat, peeling off all his leather and denim to submerge under water that wasn't lukewarm or murky. Billy grinned at him and Joel hesitantly smiled back, swimming away from the shore already knowing Billy was following.

They didn't fool around as much as last time. The mood was still a little awkward, hanging over them like the oppressive summer heat, and Joel sighed and dunked his head under, staying beneath the surface for a few good seconds before reemerging. Billy was closer to the shore and Joel let him be, staring instead up at the sky, at the dropping sun and emerging stars. It would be dark soon and he wasn't too keen on sticking around the desert at night. He was loathe to move from the water but he forced himself, mourning the loss of its coolness as it dripped down his skin.

“Billy?” He called, looking around.

“Right here.”

Joel jumped but sighed when he saw him across the pool, half-dressed and dripping. Joel waded to the shore and retrieved his clothes, tossing them up on a rock he climbed up the next minute, laying on his back and letting the cooling air dry him off.

“Hey listen, about the other day…”

Joel cracked an eye open and saw Billy by the rock, looking up at him expectantly.

“What about it?”

“You ain't that mad, right? I mean, I just figured since you don't go after the girls…”

“I'm fifteen and I live with a bunch of bikers,” Joel sighed, “least I care about is _girls_.”

“Oh.”

“But no, I ain't that mad. Just would've liked it if’n you asked first.”

“Can I kiss you again?”

Joel looked at him again incredulously.

“C’mon Joel,” Billy whined, “you said if I asked-”

“Ain't what I said,” Joel growled, sitting up to pull on his jeans with angry jerks.

“Yeah, but if you just-”

“Y’ain’t listening to me!” Joel yelled, voice cracking but he was too pissed to care. “No, alright? Goddammit you fucking asshole!”

He jumped off the rock and snatched his leathers from the ground. Shouldn't have turned his back, he knew that now. Billy knocked him to the ground and Joel landed hard on his face, rocks and grit digging into his cheek and forehead and he yelled, rolling instinctively and kicking out. Billy landed heavy on his hips and held him down—scarily easy—and crushed his wrists together with one hand against the dirt above his head.

“Get the fuck off me,” Joel hissed, forced to shut his right eye as blood poured down his face.

“Naw,” Billy grunted, shoving Joel's shirt up his chest with his free hand. “You're the only pretty piece of ass out in this hell hole and you ain't gonna say no to me.”

“Fuck you, fuck you!!” Joel screeched before Billy kissed him, rough as he pleased, and bit Joel's lips bloody. He shuffled down off Joel's hips and worked at his jeans, managing to shove them down just enough to bare his cock to the night air. Billy pulled out his own cock—already hard and red and dripping—and gripped them both, pumping his fist sporadically, clumsy with haste and youthful inexperience.

“Jesus you feel good,” Billy groaned and Joel tossed his head, trying desperately to roll or buck the larger boy off him. He managed to wrench his hands free and he punched the other teen off him, scrambling over on his belly to try and crawl away. Billy yelled, infuriated, and tackled him to the ground, wrestling him down again and grinding his already mauled faced into the rock and sand. He knocked him over the head with a rock for good measure and Joel saw white. Something sliced through his brow and he couldn't help the pathetic whimper that slipped out from the pain of it. Blood seeped freely to pool hot and tacky under his face and the sharp sting of the cut and the blow left him momentarily stunned, unmoving as Billy reared up behind him and tugged his jeans the rest of the way down his thighs.

“God ever since I saw this ass for the first time I wanted it…”

Joel coughed and moaned, blearily dragging his face through the bloodied sand to gain his bearings. His head was splitting. He jerked and sluggishly flailed when fingers pulled his asscheeks apart, exposing him to the air and hot breath.

“N-no…don't do it…” Joel slurred, weakly scraping through the sand and cracking his nails on rocks to try and get away. Billy chuckled, drunk on adrenaline as he touched him. Joel cried when he felt a tongue on him, wet and disgusting and invasive. His tongue made way for his fingers, then his cock, and Joel felt like he was going to split down the middle from his head to his ass by the end of it, moaning pathetically with each jarring, stinging thrust. He was lightheaded, dizzy, each blink felt like a lifetime as his eyes rolled up in his skull. All he could hear was his heartbeat, his breathing and Billy’s, and the insects and creatures of the night waking up all around them as Billy rutted into him like an animal.

“You say anything I'll tell everyone you're a liar,” Billy said once he was done, pulling out with a slick sound with his cum deep in Joel's belly. “Who’re they gonna believe? Me? Or you, the desert rat trash living with inbred bikers?”

Joel sniffed, blood bubbling from his mouth and in his nose. He didn't move as Billy finished dressing and left him there in the dark, taking their only flashlight.

Joel was confident he could make it back. In the morning.

In the morning.

 

 

He woke blistered and aching, still crumpled in a heap under the rock he'd pulled himself to last night. The sun hadn't woken him, but the burn did. His already dark skin was practically baked and he felt like a dried out husk. He dared to take a few gulps from the pond water before pulling himself together. Everything hurt. His face and ass were pounding in time with his heartbeat and his head. The ground reeled beneath his feet with every step and he whimpered, collapsing against a rock not even a mile from the pond.

He didn't want to, but he pulled the small beeper from his back pocket—relieved it was still there in the first place—and tapped at the buttons, waiting. He heard a few chirps in reply and he sighed, slumping on the ground to wait.

He heard the rumble of the choppers before he saw them coming around the bend, McCree's bright red one in the front of the small pack. His cheeks burned, not from the sun. He didn't want McCree to see him this way. To see what had happened. He screwed his eyes shut when McCree pulled over and ran his way, boots crunching over rock and sand to get to him.

“Hey kiddo,” he murmured, helping Joel to his feet. Joel couldn't even muster a smile in greeting, he could only lean face-first into his father's chest as the man held him close and helped him to the choppers. Joe Peet was there, and the geezer had a sidecar, thank God, and he helped lower Joel into it. Joel hissed and tried to get comfortable despite the ache in his ass, but he had to bear it as they rode back to the clubhouse. God bless air suspension.

He didn't talk much when they got back. He only answered yes or no questions and bided the medic’s touch. They cleaned up his face as best they could—his right eye was swollen shut with an impressive, jagged cut running through his eyebrow that stung as much as it did when it was first sliced open—and the medic took one look at him, at the scrapes and bruises on his chest, and asked him flat out to take his jeans off.

McCree stood large and brimming with anger in the corner as Joel gingerly pulled his pants down with the medic’s help. He lied down when instructed and sat through his touches, tense and sweaty with his legs spread, wincing when the medic quietly turned from him and spoke with McCree, when the man punched the wall and tore out of the room, yelling for a couple volunteers and some guns as he went. The medic squeezed his shoulder and the sunburn didn't even hurt. He pulled a sheet over Joel and wisely didn't say a word when the tears came.

 

 

He saw it on the news a couple days later. Local boy murdered in gang-style execution. McCree squeezed his shoulder and Joel nodded, wordless but grateful. Forever fucking grateful.

 

 

The law didn't even try and come after them. They owned the local PD and a few good lawyers. The memory of the execution faded with Joel's scars in the passing years. He got better at shooting since the incident at the pond. All he had to do was imagine the target was Billy’s head and he saw red.

 

 

McCree pulled him to the side after an evening with the boys and they waited as everyone left.

“Boss wants to talk to you,” McCree started, arms crossed, somehow looking both smug and proud.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” McCree nodded, smiling that winning smile of his. “He's thinkin’ he wants to let you in the gang proper.”

“Really?” Joel grinned.

“You bet your ass kiddo,” McCree chuckled. “But it ain't that simple. You're gonna go on a few runs with us to see how it goes first, then we'll talk.”

“Alright,” Joel beamed, giddy for the first time in awhile. McCree's smile softened and he beckoned Joel over, giving him a quick, rough hug before they left for the night, ruffling his hair as he went.

 

 

There was a guy Joel came to know, Mike, a new pledge from the next town over. Guy looked like trouble from the beginning but Joel couldn't think straight around him, hopelessly enamored by his easy smiles and dumb jokes. At seventeen Joel liked to think he knew what he liked, and Mike was it. He was only a few years older than Joel and they were partnered together often. They got along good. They got along _real_ good.

“Fuck, Mikey,” Joel moaned softly, rocking in time with the older guy’s rolling hips. They were making out in Mike’s room—more privacy than Joel's bunk in the clubhouse—and things quickly devolved to a lot of heavy petting and clothed grinding on the bed. Mike kissed him breathless, wet and all tongue and teeth as he panted into Joel's mouth, and Joel cried out when Mike shoved his legs further apart beneath him, humping him harder than before.

“I fucking love your mouth,” Mike groaned, bracing himself up by his elbows framing Joel's flushed and sweaty face.

“Yeah?” Joel grinned, biting his puffy lower lip and the man above him moaned, “what do you want me to do with it?”

“S-suck my cock?” He might've meant it as an answer but it came off as a question. Joel's heart fluttered but he nodded, swallowing.

“Okay, okay,” he murmured, shimmying flat on the bed as Mike worked at his belt and pants. He kicked them off and Joel was instantly fixated on his cock. It wasn't all that long or thick—Joel only had porn and one other real life experience to go on for comparison—but his mouth watered in anticipation all the same.

“You do this before?”

“No,” Joel answered, better to be truthful than regret it later.

“Fuck, that's,” Mike broke off with a gasp and a quick, deep moan when Joel took him in his mouth. He went slow, and Joel could feel Mike’s thighs trembling from the effort of holding still over him. He mouthed at the hard flesh, eyes closed and far away as he focused on the taste, the feel of it, the weight of the man's cock on his tongue. He moaned through his nose and took him deeper, not enough to gag but close, and started bobbing his head.

“Jesus you're a natural, a g-goddamn pro,” Mike stammered, letting his hips jerk a little. Joel gagged a little and he pulled off.

“You don't need to flatter me I've already got your dick in my mouth,” Joel smirked. Mike laughed breathlessly and pressed over Joel's lips with his thumb.

“You're gorgeous.”

Joel blushed and settled for licking over the head, sucking the tip and savoring the flavor of sweat and musk, Mike’s taste he had come to crave.

“You're so hot and I can't f-fuckin’ _believe_ I get to have you.”

Joel moaned softly and screwed his eyes shut, sucking harder.

“Th-think your dad’ll have my hide if he catches us though.”

Joel popped off and wiped his mouth with a grimace.

“Let's _not_ talk about McCree while we're fucking, okay?”

“Right,” Mike chuckled, sheepish and flushed, “you're right, my bad.”

Joel grinned and went back to work, squeezing Mike's thighs, releasing him with a wet pop to mouth over his balls, pressing his nose and face into the sweaty skin and wiry hair to breathe him in. He was lightheaded with it, practically swollen with pleasure, fit to explode.

“God I want your cock,” Joel groaned, sucking it once, hard, and Mike jerked and cried out at the intensity.

“Think you got it, baby,” he whimpered.

“No, want you in my ass,” Joel said, pushing himself up and out from beneath Mike's thighs.

“Fuck, are you sure? I mean…”

Joel frowned and pushed Mike onto his back, straddling his hips with his wet cock pressing against his tailbone.

“Know what I want, asshole.”

“Alright alright,” Mike complied, impatiently ripping off his shirt. Joel watched him, looking down at Mike with hooded eyes as he undressed, too. He saw the way Mike was staring back, watching him bare himself like he was the only water in the goddamn desert and Mike was a dying man. Jesse whimpered and yanked his shirt over his head, mussing his hair out of its loose tie and it dropped over his naked shoulders and neck. It was getting too long but Mike liked it, McCree said it suited him, so he kept it.

“Come here,” Mike murmured. Joel crawled over him, pressing the length of his naked body against his older lover with something close to relief as Mike held him tight and kissed him so slow and smooth. Their cocks slotted together perfectly and Joel whimpered, rocking his hips in an easy slide. Mike hesitantly gripped his ass and Joel groped back, grabbing one of his hands and pressing harder. Mike got the hint and pressed his fingers deep, kneading his ass so strongly Joel thought he'd lose his goddamn mind.

He mumbled slurred encouragement and moans as Mike's fingers delved deeper, pressing against that tight ring of muscle that hadn't been touched by anyone else since…

He cried out when Mike circled his hole, pressing just barely in and out and he was left breathless and wanting.

“Get the lube, ‘n a condom,” Mike grunted, shifting to make room for Joel as he leaned up on his hands and knees to grab the tube and foil packet from the dresser drawer.

“How do you wanna do this?” Mike asked, and Joel remained perched above him, up on his knees.

“I'll do it,” Joel said, swallowing that familiar fear, tamping it down deep. He'd fingered himself plenty before, weren't no different here and now on top of Mike, the guy he really, _really_ liked who seemed to return the sentiment.

Mike watched, jaw slack and awed as Joel pushed first one then two fingers inside himself, opening to the foreign feeling of something pressing _in_ , but it lit up all those electric places inside him. He felt like a goddamn Christmas tree. He stretched as much as he could before his impatience got the better of him. He moved up and braced himself on Mike's chest with the man's cock in his other hand, wet with lube from the condom.

“Y’sure you’re ready?” Mike asked after a heavy swallow, seeming to hold himself still through massive, conscious effort. Joel answered by pressing the man's cock to his hole and dropping down, slow but smooth, and Mike groaned loud and dropped his head back on the bed.

“Fuck Joel, you're…you’re goddamn tight…”

Joel screwed his eyes shut and focused on moving, rolling down until he was fully seated atop Mike's hips. He could feel every inch, every pulse, and the heat filling him up inside.

“Feels…” Joel murmured, unable to even speak when Mike flexed his thighs and bumped him off his cock an inch, then back down. He panted and started moving after that, little rocks of his hips at first, only coming up an inch or so each time, then Mike held his hips in a firm grip and helped him along. Joel was bouncing on his cock in earnest, moaning with his head tossed back, staring unseeing at the cracked and dirty ceiling.

Mike groaned and sat up, wrapping him in his arms. They rocked together, deep and intimate and Joel couldn't fucking breathe. He fell backward on the bed when pushed and Mike loomed over him. Joel expected the stomach-drop fear, but Mike kissed him so tenderly he almost couldn't handle it. The tenderness lasted only a few short seconds then Mike was fucking him in earnest, driving his cock into his hole over and over again and the slick sounds of their sex bounced around the room, mixing with Joel's gasps and whines.

Heat flared deep in his gut as Mike jabbed his prostate on almost every thrust, and he couldn't keep quiet. Dimly he wondered if anyone heard them. It wasn't strange to hear folks going at it in their hangout, but he knew his voice was unmistakable, and he knew someone would get an idea in their head and they'd run and tell McCree. Somehow the idea of getting caught set him afire.

He came over his stomach in quick, wet spurts, gasping and crying out as Mike's every thrust felt a hundred times more intense. The man grunted when Joel locked up tight and he hunkered down, fucking into him with short, rabbit-quick jerks as he chased his own orgasm. Every jab at his insides sent sharp heat up his spine; he was dizzy and hoarse with it by the time Mike finished inside him.

Mike collapsed on him and Joel didn't even mind. They were both sticky with sweat and cum and they stuck to each other, slick and hot but happy. Mike kissed him deep, licking into his mouth as he pressed him into the sweaty mattress, and they were filthy but Joel didn't want to move. Mike pulled out of him and Joel winced and sighed, rolling when pushed as Mike hugged him close, spooning up behind him and their bodies fit together perfectly.

Mike tied off and tossed the condom across the room then pulled the sheet over them both, and Joel let his eyes slide closed. He could sleep here until morning. It'd be fine.

 

 

It happened on a run, quicker than a blink. The Feds were on their tails and McCree was at the back end, zigging around to draw their attention and fire. Joel heard the screech, the groan of bending metal and misfiring machinery, and he looked over his shoulder with wild eyes. McCree had bailed in time but he was pinned under the wreckage of his bike, face tight from the pain of it but he was grinning like the devil himself, Feds bearing down on him with murder in their eyes. Joel swerved and turned, drawing his pistol.

 _Line ‘em up_ , Joel heard McCree say in his head, back when Joel was a kid and the gun was overlarge and heavy in his hands, _knock ‘em down_.

Joel's eye was on fire, red light like a dying sun burned through the retina and illuminated his sight. Time slowed, his blood thrummed in his ears like the plaintive strumming of a guitar. Whip cracks. Four eyes blown out and four dead on the ground around McCree in less than a second, a macabre wreath.

Time came back in a wash of sound and color, sierra brown replaced with the bright fire of the wreck, his father in the center of the dead, breathing and alive. Joel cracked a wary grin, stumbling off his bike to run to his father's side. He was dizzy, the ground reeled beneath him. He thought he heard McCree call his name, the man looked scared. Strange. Nothing scared that man.

Joel hit the pavement faster than he could blink and he was out.

 

 

“I said it before and I'll say it again, it ain't natural. Boy ain't right.”

“Shut your fucking mouth ‘fore I introduce your teeth to the pavement!”

Joel stirred, answering his father's ire like a siren call dragging him to consciousness. He must've made a noise; hands were on him in an instant helping him sit up, smoothing away the hair plastered to his sweaty forehead and cheeks.

“Hey there, kiddo. Gave me a real scare.”

Joel tried to talk but his mouth felt full of glue, his tongue stuck to his teeth and the roof of his mouth as he sucked in a breath, feeling for his father's hands. Everything was real dark and cool, balm to a burn.

“Hurts…” he managed, breath coming on a rasp and a calloused thumb stroked over his sweaty temple. His cheeks were wet but he didn't feel like he was crying, didn't feel that familiar tightness and pressure in his head. It was all centered behind his eyes. McCree made a noise, foreign and indiscernible, and a cloth wiped over his face, clearing away the wetness.

“I'll…I bet it does,” was all McCree said, voice rougher than sandpaper. Joel heard people murmuring around him and his heart pounded in his ears. What did he _do_? They all eventually shuffled out, leaving Joel and McCree behind, in dark silence.

 

 

He got better, got back with Mike who was concerned for a little while but learned to drop it quick. Joel took to sleeping with him at night, and if McCree noticed the both of them coming down for breakfast more than a little bedraggled and rough around the edges he didn't say anything about it.

Thing was, spending so much time around someone let you into their world, helped you notice things you might've missed before. Maybe Mike let his guard down too much around Joel, and though it hurt—more than that day so long ago by the pond—Joel stole Mike's bag in the night and rooted through it in the bathroom, coming up with the second communicator he'd seen him use from time to time, when he thought no one was looking, late at night when he thought he'd fucked Joel to sleep. Joel saw a lot more these days. Mike shoulda known.

Joel didn't wait, didn't wake Mike, and he went straight to McCree, handing him the communicator silently. The old man sighed through his nose, looking down at the black, too-sleek tech, turning it over in his hands. They went to the boss.

“Go get him,” the man said, barely looking up from his bike as he fiddled with the engine. Joel waited around the warehouse as McCree and a couple other guys left, returning scarcely five minutes later with Mike held between them, kicking and hollering like a child. One look at Joel's face, though, and he shut up real quick.

“Who’re you with, rat?”

“Ain't no rat,” Mike spat, earning him a quick punch to the gut. The boss sighed, looking bored, as McCree and the others tied Mike to a chair and bolted it to the floor. They stepped back and waited.

“I'm gonna ask you again, boy,” the boss drawled, quiet and calm like a river with a deadly current under its surface, waiting to swallow you whole. “Who are you with?”

Mike looked downright cagey, glancing at his former brothers with a little bit of hope, landing on Joel. But Joel had hardened over the years. Something like this would've hurt more, before, and he knew he was being strong for his father. Later, he knew, he would curl up in Mike's bunk and breathe in his smell in the sheets, close his eyes to bitter tears and the memory of the man's hands on his thighs, of his cock splitting him open as they fucked. Rapturous.

But here, now, Joel was cold. And Mike could see it, Joel could tell. He watched the young man's face fall, could see the acceptance, desperation warring with boyish bravado as he spat at the boss’s feet.

“I ain't a rat. Don't gotta tell you _shit_.”

“You're making this real hard for yourself,” McCree spoke up, twiddling the communicator between his fingers, blatant enough for Mike to see. He looked at it, eyes darting again to Joel's, and he licked his lips.

“That's not mine.”

Joel didn't know who Mike thought he was fooling. McCree and the others chuckled and closed in. The boss took the device from McCree and tapped at the screen, waking it. The screen lit up and an image shone in the center, a red circle on a black field, some devilish white logo over top.

“The hell’s this?” The man asked, flashing Mike the symbol. Unsurprisingly he said nothing. The boss sighed and pocketed the communicator, nodding once, solemn.

“Alright boy. We're gonna give you one last shot at making this right. Just come out and tell us and we'll fix it. No sweat. You're blood, I’d hate to waste you over a misunderstanding.”

Mike swallowed audibly. _Stupid fucker_ , Joel thought, scowling, _stupid sumbitch_. He wasn't sure if he was thinking about Mike or himself.

“Alright,” Mike rasped, eyes locked on Joel's. “It’s pillow fort.”

“What?” The boss frowned, brows furrowed in confusion. Joel heard the high whine, the keen of prepping machinery and he shouted, tackling McCree out of the way in time for the device to explode in the boss’s pocket. Gore rained down on them, pieces of the boss scattered every which way, and hell rained down on them in an instant.

“Move, boy,” McCree snarled in his ear and Joel nodded, rolling to his feet and staying low as they hightailed it out of the warehouse. Gunfire and screams followed them to the edges of the building and Joel took a quick look back. Those left behind were giving it their all, firing off behind crates at the unknown assailants and Joel took out his revolver. He saw two men trying to free Mike from the chair. He squinted and raised his gun, firing, unworried that he'd miss. He never misses, not anymore, and brain matter and blood spewed out of Mike's blown out forehead all over the black-clad assailants.

Whoever they were they weren't sentimental. They paused only for a moment, identifying where the shot came from, then the team overcame the few Deadlock members left, heading right for them.

“Come on!” McCree hissed, kicking out a side panel. They shimmied out, running faster than Joel ever had to in his life. His long hair whipped out behind him, catching in the wind, and he _felt it_ when a bullet grazed through it, missing his skull by a fraction of an inch. He cried out and ducked, panicked when McCree took up his rear, shielding him.

This was it. The end.

 

 

“Alpha team, what's the situation in the warehouse?”

Gabriel Reyes listened as his squad leader explained. He closed his eyes when they mentioned Mike’s death. The man knew what he was getting into when he signed on, knew going undercover was a huge risk, but the Deadlock gang was a nuisance turned headache, a thorn in his side that he finally achieved approval to take down.

“Alright,” Reyes said, “focus on the clubhouse, our eye in the sky says that's where most of them are. It's earlier than we were planning on hitting ‘em but it was unavoidable. Let's make it count.”

“Yessir. Two hostiles escaped the warehouse. They're headed right for you.”

“Copy that,” Reyes said, snapping and pointing at the surveillance screens. Their comms guy looked, zeroed in on the running pair, and Reyes ordered a small team after them. This needed to be clean. No runners. He almost forgot about them until his comm chirped in his ear.

“Sir, beta team’s down.”

“What?” Reyes scowled, looming over the comm officer’s shoulder to watch the feed. The three-man squad lay dead in the dirt, the younger hostile holstering his gun to hastily support the larger man’s body as they ran, trailing blood.

“Gotta do everything around here,” Reyes grunted, kicking out of the communications tent with fury. Too many of his men were dead thanks to this brat. He'd hunt him down with gusto.

 

 

“Hold on, just hold on a little longer,” Joel cried, half running, half dragging McCree beside him to the garage. The man was wheezing and soaked in blood, Joel whined and tried not to look at the holes in the man's chest.

“Joel, kiddo…look at me.”

Joel sobbed when McCree gave up trying to help, going limp in his arms. Too heavy, too big. They crumpled to the ground and Joel fought back prickly tears as he held his father close, gathering him up in his arms as they lay in the dirt.

“You gotta run, kiddo,” McCree rasped, placing a bloody hand on Joel's cheek. Joel shook his head, wordless and tight-chested with pain, with desperation.

“Yes, you gotta run,” McCree said, sounding so patient and serene. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and caught sticky in his beard.

“I'm so proud of you,” he continued, voice barely above a whisper. Joel shook his head again, he couldn't stop the tears and he frantically scrubbed them away. He needed to see, he needed his father. He heard scuffling footsteps, of a man not even trying to hide his approach, and Joel stiffened.

“Love you so much, Joel,” McCree sighed, closing his eyes.

“Daddy, _please_ …” Joel whimpered, burying his face in the man's neck, holding him close as he felt the life leave him in breaths. One, two, gone. He screamed, a long, ragged wail muffled by the man's shirt and his own hair, a wild mess around his face. He rocked and cried, uncaring as the heavy steps came closer and closer. A cruel hand fisted in his bloody hair and pulled him up, yanking him from McCree's body with more force than necessary, sending him sprawling across the dirt.

“Fuck, you're just a kid.”

Joel sobbed and scraped up to his hands and knees, rising to his unsteady feet. He yanked his hair out of his face and glared at the man, looking him over. Big, muscled, dark skin, mean looking motherfucker but nothing Joel couldn't handle. He felt that familiar itch behind his eye and he blinked hard, scowling and groping for his gun.

He'd take care of him. He'd shoot his goddamn _brains_ out. _Motherfucker_.

Bright and hot behind his eyes, red, copper-tang, like all the sand in the desert pouring into his brain. He swiped his cheek at the sweat—blood?—pouring from his eyes. He snarled and lined it up.

…But he missed. He never fucking misses, and the one shot, the single shot that mattered the most, missed. And so he ran. He managed maybe a hundred, bloody, sweaty yards before being tackled to the ground, wrestled into submission and dragged to his feet in a blood-slippery headlock. Joel kicked and screamed and cursed the whole way, choking to a stop as they passed McCree's body in the dirt.

“Grab the guy’s blanket.”

“Serape,” Joel corrected, voice cracking and quiet. The man grunted and made him watch as the others man-handled McCree's dead body, extricating the bloody, dirt covered wrap from his shoulders.

“D-don’ touch him like that,” Joel cried, limp with grief as fresh tears poured down his cheeks, mixing with his blood, with McCree's blood. “Don’…treat him like he's…”

“A criminal?” The man holding him barked, “a piece of shit not worth my time? Be thankful I'm even letting you have this, ingrate.”

Joel screwed his eyes shut and heaved, hiccupy breaths mixing with his sobs. The man at his back made a noise of disgust and one of the other men shoved the serape into Joel's arms. He held it tight to his chest, grappling at the homespun fabric, reaching for a memory, any memory of McCree that wasn't blood-covered and vile. Anything to take him away from this place, and the thought of leaving him there in the dirt as he was forced away on unwilling feet.

“Please,” he suddenly gasped, wildly flailing as he tried to look over the man's shoulder, “I need to see him. I didn't say goodbye, I gotta—”

“Shut up.”

“Please!” Joel screamed, renewing his struggles as they walked farther and farther from the body in the desert. It would be left to rot, or be taken by a clean up crew, Joel wasn't too sure what government types did with the bodies of criminals with no kin other than more criminals.

“Shut up before I change my mind,” the man snarled, moving to pull away McCree's serape.

“N-no,” Joel whined, pulling it back, subdued. He sniffed and cried, quieting in the face of the inevitable as he was led through the carnage, through the strewn bodies of his family, all the way to the warehouse where Mike's body was laid out on the ground, arms folded over top of him as he was zipped into a body bag. Even the sight of Mike left him breathless, overcome with so many conflicting emotions it left him dizzy and bereft.

He closed his eyes to the rest of it as he was led outside, cuffed and shoved in the back of a vehicle, taken out of the desert forever. He thought of a flash of a white-toothed grin, crinkled, kind eyes. He ducked his chin into his chest, pressing his face into the serape and wept.

 

 

Reyes leaned against the observation glass as he watched the kid on the other side. He'd been hosed down and cleaned up, shaved and cut and redressed. He looked like a half-drowned rat with a clumsy haircut, his fault for squirming and crying through the whole thing like a sentimental dope. It would've been a regulation high and tight if it wasn't so patchy.

Any other kid, Reyes would pity them. Not this kid. He remembered the way he blinked and…cried blood. There was no explanation for it. He’d made a noise as he brushed the blood from his cheeks, looking at it with a sort of mute horror before focusing on Reyes with red, baleful eyes. Reyes felt rooted, lassoed in place as time seemed to slow and the kid reached for his gun, shoved in the waistband of his tattered jeans. He watched the gun rise, pointing at him, and, with a monumental effort, like moving a goddamn mountain, Reyes dropped and avoided the shot. The kid yelled, hoarse and frustrated, as he chucked his gun in Reyes's stunned face and took off, tearing across the nighttime desert. Out of bullets and out of time.

That red blanket had been washed and given back to him; he was wrapped in it now, seeming smaller than before in its ragged bulk. He just sat there at the table, head tilted down into the blanket with his eyes closed and brows furrowed. He gave up crying awhile ago, in place of tears he had rage, and rage he did. Reyes's shin still throbbed from where the kid had kicked him. Reyes took his boots and left him barefoot in the chilled room in retaliation.

Reyes recognized the kid from Mike's scattered reports. Joel. No last name, or any guarantee Joel was even his real name. The man who’d died by him must've been McCree, his unlawfully adoptive father. The kid was only seventeen.

He continued to watch as lunch was brought in for him, probably the first solid meal the kid would've had in the past twelve hours, and continued to watch as the kid waited for the operative to leave before he stuck his tanned, scarred arms out of the blanket to stuff his face. He still looked angry shoving a cheese sandwich bit by bit into his mouth, chasing it with liberal chugs of water—drugged—and bites of apple. He slowed down, growing sluggish, and Reyes pushed off the glass, leaving the room.

He entered the other side, unsurprised when the kid barely reacted to him, and sat across the table.

“Know why you're here?”

The kid looked up at him, vague recognition in his eyes but Reyes doubted a grown man could fight off the effects of the drugs in his system, let alone a boy.

“You're here because of a report my operative filed shortly before he was killed.”

Joel made a noise, a sort of moaning sigh.

“You knew him as Mike Kamp, he was my man on the inside. Inside more than one thing, from what I heard,” Reyes chuckled.

Joel glared at him, affronted.

“I told him to use any means necessary to ingratiate himself with the gang but damn, he really went the extra mile.”

Reyes knew he was being cruel, but the little shit had killed too many of his men, including Mike himself. He'd make the little bastard pay for it.

“Can't say I blame him. Didn't look to be too many women out there who weren't merchandise or twice my age. With the hair you had, put you on your front and I think anyone could mistake you for a chick into anal.”

Joel bristled.

“Hit a nerve? What, you thought Mike was with you ‘cause he _loved_ you?”

Tears glistened at the corners of the kid’s eyes and he blinked them away, jaw working furiously.

“Ah hell, maybe he did, his reports were always soft on you. Guy waxed poetic about your marksmanship. Then I saw it for myself.”

Reyes let out a low whistle.

“That's why you're here.”

Joel's head lolled on his shoulder and he glared at the wall, eyes wet and red.

“You're here ‘cause of that little trick you pulled a week ago, and again last night. I didn't really believe Mike's story, thought he'd gone off a bit, the sun got to him, but damn. You almost had me back there.”

The kid didn't look all that impressed.

“Normally in these types of situations there'd be some sort of representative or government worker here, to make sure there wasn't any abuse going on since you're a minor. But guess what? No one but my guys and me know you're here.”

Joel sucked in a breath but he didn't look frightened, merely resigned, head tilted back as he looked at Reyes with those red eyes of his. A lazy gaze that spoke of death. Acceptance.

“There'd be some sort of deal. I'd say join up with me or get sent to a super max for life. I think the first couple months would be tough, doe-eyed kid going in there looking the way you do, but word would get out, Deadlock boys already in would find you, keep you safe and comfortable. I can't have that.”

He stood and rounded the table.

“Instead you're going to join Blackwatch. And I'm gonna be on your ass _every second_ of your miserable life.”

He pulled the kid’s arm out from under the blanket and laid it out, palm up on the table.

“And no soldier of mine needs gang marks.”

This was the way Reyes preferred. He didn’t want recruits from a military pedigree fresh from boot camp, he didn’t want geniuses plucked from universities, he didn’t even want the bravest or the meanest. He wanted the ones that were broken, the ones so maimed beyond repair that Reyes could take them and force them into something _new_.

Joel looked as if he was trying his best to hyperventilate despite the drugs pumping in his system.

It would be quick. Not necessarily clean, but that's why they had medics, wasn't it? Two of them were waiting outside the room, to rush in and stabilize the wound and put him under for treatment.

But for now it was just Reyes, a blade, and a boy.

 

 

“If looks could kill, Gabriel,” Amari chided, clucking something in Arabic as they watched the newest recruits go through the field test.

“I'm sure he's imagining that paper target is my head,” Reyes chuckled, watching the kid send three perfect rounds directly into the head of the target, scowling and tossing the gun down when the instructor checked and cleared him.

“It's a shame his arm isn't finished, his performance in the physical drills would improve, and he would be able to complete the rest of his tests.”

“Damn shame.”

“Gabriel,” Amari dropped her voice, “he lost his arm in the sting op, yes?”

“I've told you so many, many times,” Reyes sighed, pinching his nose. Lying came easier than sleeping, these days. Amari grunted and crossed her arms. He knew she was wary of him, like the way two scavengers were aware of the other, but unwilling to fight. Rather pick at the bones and wait for the next big kill.

 

 

Joel became Jesse. It was there on paper, his new citizenship and working documents. Given that there was no way to track down a birth certificate—or anything else about him, for that matter—the shift in identity was easy.

They called him McCree, and it was a peculiar, painful form of torture.

 

 

“You're gonna have to try harder than that.”

Jesse growled and flipped upright, moving nimbly even after the loss of his arm. He'd grown used to it. He'd always been adaptive, forming easily to anything Reyes thought to throw at him. Reyes couldn't help but feel a little proud.

They were sparring after hours. Reyes had made up a bullshit excuse about Jesse's physicality—in truth the kid was fine, better than some of the others despite his handicap, in fact—and he'd spent the last half hour slamming him into the mats.

“Come on,” Reyes goaded, “come at me.”

Jesse sneered but didn't rise to the bait. He assumed his stance and waited, watching. He was always _watching_. Reyes snorted and made the first move, favoring Jesse's weak side in an attempt to toss him. He had superior size and strength, but Jesse made up for his handicap and smaller stature with speed.

Cruel jabs and rabbit punches kept Reyes at bay, and for the first time that night Jesse was holding his own, dancing around Reyes with nimble feet with a sort of fierce desperation in his eyes. Reyes grinned, matching Jesse hit for hit until they were both panting, swaying and exhausted. Reyes could go on for hours more, but he knew Jesse was close to his end. His hits were taking on an edge of wildness, his footwork grew sloppier by the second, but really, if Reyes was being truthful, it was a lucky hit that finally took him down.

Jesse went sprawling on the mats, face-first on his bad side, and Reyes saw him move to catch himself out of reflex but he hit the ground, hard. He struggled to right himself but went sprawling and he growled in frustration, slamming his fist on the mat.

“Okay kiddo, don't overdo it.”

“Don't call me that,” Jesse spat, glaring over his shoulder. His hair had grown out, not nearly as long as when he was first brought in but it was far past regulation length. He looked much like he did back then; wild-eyed and hurt. He struggled to support himself but his arm quivered and gave out, sending him down again.

“Alright,” Reyes sighed, kneeling by Jesse's side, “stay down.”

“ _Fuck_ you,” Jesse grit out, trying and failing to move away.

“Agent,” Reyes warned, putting a hand over the back of Jesse's tanned neck. The kid shivered but tried to buck him off, finding his second wind as he kicked out and knocked Reyes on his ass. Reyes grunted in frustration and regained his footing, straddling the kid as he tried to crawl away.

“Stay down.”

“No.”

“ _Stay down_ ,” Reyes repeated, dropping his hips against Jesse's tailbone. They grappled for awhile until Jesse ended up on his back, sweating and red-faced with wild strands of hair plastered to his forehead and neck. Sweat stained his chest and pits, even his lower stomach above his groin, and Reyes couldn't help but follow the trail down with his gaze. Jesse was hard. The kid saw him looking and his face scrunched up in fury as he bucked, fighting to get out from under the larger man with every bit of energy he had left.

“Hey, it's alright,” Reyes murmured, holding him still, “it's natural.”

“ _I hate you_ ,” Jesse hissed suddenly, muscles bunching and contorting in his efforts to escape.

“I know,” Reyes nodded.

“I'm gonna kill you.”

“I know.”

“I fucking…hate…” Jesse broke off, chest heaving with his eyes screwed shut and teeth bared.

“Shh,” Reyes soothed, brushing his hair out of his face. “It's alright, chico. I know.”

He cupped Jesse in his hand and the boy shuddered, undulating on the mat but he ceased struggling, keeping his eyes firmly shut as Reyes palmed him, feeling his solid heat, the hint of moisture at the tip under his fingers. He rubbed him out, watching Jesse's face grow splotchy and tight as he shivered out a weak orgasm beneath him, contorted in forced pleasure. Reyes gave him a moment before pulling him to his unsteady feet.

“Who were you thinking about when I jerked you off,” Reyes started, something dark coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Mike?”

Jesse gaped at him, horrified.

He deserved the punch that sent him to the mat for the first time that night, the kick to his gut too, and he watched Jesse fly from the room through stinging tears. He laughed.

 

 

Jesse had been calming down but after last night’s sparring he was back to how he was at the start, meaner than spit and like the devil. He talked to no one, unless forced to, and he did so with clipped words and glares until he was done. If he so much as even saw Reyes approaching he ran. He stopped attending drills and tests, skipped out on his exams, meals, showers, everything.

“Fareeha if I find out you're lying I swear I'll—”

“I'm not, mom! I just hang out with Jesse a lot and he stinks like an ashtray. Not my fault the smell catches.”

“You spend time with Jesse?” Reyes asked, startling both Fareeha and her mother. They were in the officer wing, and Amari was crouched in front of her daughter with a firm grip on her shoulders.

“I won't have my daughter subjected to secondhand smoke, Gabriel,” Amari frowned, rising fluidly to her feet. “Control your recruit.”

“Yes ma’am,” Reyes replied, ducking his head in a nod as she left. Fareeha stepped awkwardly by as Reyes continued on, but he paused.

“You spend time with Jesse,” he repeated, not a question. Fareeha didn't answer and he looked down, noticing her rigid stance and averted eyes. She was normally intimidated by him but this was something else.

“Yessir,” she finally said.

“Where?” He demanded.

She chewed her lip and shifted around, looking like she wanted to run.

“Not supposed to say,” she blurted.

“Listen,” Reyes sighed, kneeling to match her height, “you tell me where Jesse is and I won't tell your mom you've been sneaking a few puffs.”

“But I didn't!”

Reyes raised an eyebrow and her lip trembled, darting her eyes away.

“C building on east side,” she finally mumbled. “He sits on the roof and smokes.”

“Thank you,” Reyes said, rising to his feet and leaving her behind. He found the building, went up to the roof, found Jesse smoking like Fareeha’d said, and came up from behind him.

Jesse heard him, of course he did, but he was about twenty years too young to think he could get his way out of Reyes's hold. He squawked and cursed as Reyes dragged him to the edge of the roof, taking on a more panicked tone when they came too close.

“Wait wait wait—holy _fuck_!”

Reyes braced himself and easily held the runt off the edge of the roof, dangling him there with a grip on his forearm with the kid's feet dangerously close to slipping off the ledge.

“Cut the bullshit,” Reyes ordered, calmly but loud enough to be heard over Jesse's yelling. “Resume your schedule or so help me God I'll drop you off this fucking roof.”

“Okay okay! Christ!” Jesse screamed, scrambling away from him when Reyes pulled him back onto the roof. He looked dangerously close to hyperventilating but Reyes gave him one last look then left the roof.

Jesse showed up at 0700 drills the next day without a word.

 

 

 

 


End file.
